My first “real” job at 15 was at Chuck-E-Cheese. How fun was that. I got to dress up as a mouse with a big creepy pink foam tail. (I could have sworn the popular girls my age gave me mysteriously indelicate glances, which to this day I’ve never experienced out of costume. Hmm...maybe I should think about spicing things up with Kathy by finding a used Chuck-E-Cheese costume on eBay!)
Whenever I (Chuck-E) would come busting out of the “dressing room” door next to the animatronic stage, the kids would always be confused—because just moments before, the animatronic Chuck-E was moving and talking. Even though he went still and dark seconds before I emerged, he could still be clearly seen. So to the kids, there’s this Chuck-E on stage, then suddenly here comes another Chuck-E, this one much more limber and mobile and filthy than the one on (in) the stage, still visible. (I don’t think the Chuck-E suit was ever cleaned, it was filthy and the fur was perpetually matted.) Often times, the juxtaposition of the two different but same mouse[s] was enough to make the younger kids cry.
But the rest of them would immediately run full speed at me, screeching, and practically dog-pile all around me. The older ones kind of intuitively sensed I wasn’t actually a giant filthy mouse, and in all likelihood was probably a teenager in a giant filthy mouse suit. Some figured out they could see me through the gaps in the fiberglass head. For them, seeing a human head inside the Chuck-E head seemed to provide confirmation that there was, in fact, a human in there. And for some reason, upon this realization, it sent whatever kids figured it out into a furious rage! Every time. And inevitably the hitting would start. For every one of my Chuck-E appearances, I was repeatedly punched in the intestines, the kidneys, the nads, hip bones (the hip bones!)...they would try to knock my head off, they would screech to the others about me not being a real mouse like some kind of alien pod people, on and on. How can anyone work under those conditions? Where was OSHA?
Finally, after enduring months of punching, I developed a sure-fire method to get a grip (literally) on the chaos. Even at 15, I had big hands, so this is what I would do: I’d take my big furry mitts and pat the kids’ heads like I was happy to see them (which for most of them I was). Most of the kids were good and just SO thrilled to be meeting a giant filthy mouse. So I would continue gently patting their heads with one hand. For the few rotten punch-ey ones though, I’d take my other hand, and rather than patting them, would put a death squeeze on their skulls, one at a time. Oh they would shriek in pain and flail their arms, but their parents just thought they were thrilled to be meeting a giant filthy mouse like everyone else. It actually took a lot of practice—it’s kind of like rubbing your stomach and patting your head at the same time. Try it sometime. So it took even more concentration while in the thick of this crazy, screaming horde. I had to find my Zen place and was extra careful not to get my right and left mixed up lest I squeeze the wrong noggin. I learned the true art of performance, showmanship, absolute concentration in the midst of chaos, and gently persuading the course of destiny--through determination and a strong grip.
I especially liked putting on the costume of my favorite character, Munch Monster, which was this big furry monster thing made out of something resembling purple shag carpet, with lots of inverted triangular shapes (such as the oversized upper teeth). It only occurred to me decades later there might have been some kind of vaguely lesbian theme or something going on there. I don’t know who created those costumes, but Freud would have had a field day. (I won’t even go into the suggestive gyrations of the animatronic Elvis-the-lion thing in the parent’s lounge.)
Anyway, I didn’t just wear Munch Monster, I became Munch Monster. I especially liked to hide on the other side of this small tunnel that led eventually to the balls room (or however you’re supposed to say that), and would scare the kids as they crawled through. At the time I thought it was perfectly harmless, and actually thought I was doing a good deed by providing cheap little scares, like a haunted house. But thinking back on that now as a parent, I would have punched that purple punk if he did that to my child. And not only that, it must have been more frightening to kids than I realized at the time. I mean, the room the tunnel led to was somewhat dark and had this super-bright disorienting strobe going off constantly, and the walls were dark and all kinds of funny angles. Even without a monster waiting in ambush, it was kind of like the ship-about-to-blow-final-countdown sequence in “Alien” as it was already. I wonder how many poor kids I sent into years of monster-aversion therapy. Or maybe it was me that needed the therapy.
But I didn’t actually get to wear the mouse & monster suits until I worked my way up the hierarchy. Like all success stories, I started out in the dishroom. It was cold (yet sweaty), dirty work. Then I made pizzas (which were actually incredibly good believe it or else). I ate all the pizza I could. I think we were even allowed to. Salad bar duty was a fun rotation. Child labor and liquor laws not quite being what they are today, I was also often responsible for serving beer and wine. We never checked IDs—I guess if the customers had a child hanging on them, they could have some beer. If they couldn’t see over the counter, they couldn’t have any beer. It was pretty simple back in those days.
Being in charge of the game room was always a special treat. Since I had the key to all the machines, I could (and if memory serves me I was even allowed to) flip the lever inside to rack up any number of credits I wanted. I did that often with Star Wars and Dragon’s Lair, and would then play them after I ended my shift.
The store also experimented with having a wait staff—basically serving families and birthday parties in the big room. I was the first guinea pig waiter probably due to my reputation as a fine giant filthy mouse. (This table-waiting experience later came in handy for landing a job as a waiter at Pizza Hut. ...You can see the career progression here.) One immutable life axiom I’ve learned through all my years: no matter how hard you work and no matter how smart you are, Chuck-E-Cheese customers never tip.
The official Chuck-E-Cheese work uniform was this god-awful 100% polyester atrocity, complete with a hard plastic bright red derby (that came in one size and not even close to fitting anyone). After a few weeks, the smell of dirty dishwater, pizza, and sweat could not be removed, and it just kept getting worse. I had to ride my bike to work, about 5 miles each way (seriously). Rain or snow, heat or cold. In that utterly ridiculous outfit. It’s amazing I was not beaten to death by gang members. Or by some church group that just happened to be out as I rode by.
I would think it was hell if I had to do it now, but somehow then I was just happy to have a job eating free pizza, playing free games, and squeezing the skulls of little punks trying to punch me while their parents took pictures. And dressing up as a purple lesbian monster. What more could you ask for?
Note: This photo is not me. It's a more recent photo of a Chuck-E-Cheese party I found randomly on the web. Chuck-E has evolved slightly since I wore the suit--with a softer, more cuddly look that is probably less frightening to small children. Also, he has been washed. (The sexual harassment lawyers might have gotten involved too since the '80s, as it appears that Chuck-E has lost his huge hairless pink foam "tail" that was so long that I often had to carry it with one or both hands in front of me in order to keep it from dragging on the ground.) It's clear from this photo that my method of keeping the big angry kids at bay (which I passed on to my successors) has lived on, albeit in a slightly modified fashion--rather than the "Noggin Squeeze", this Chuck-E is demonstrating the "Furry Slap On The Back Of The Head To Some Random Guy Who Never Saw It Coming" form of pre-emptive strike against possible future aggression.
Copied over from my original blog entry of the same name on Windows Live Spaces.
Copyright © 2006 James R. "Jim" Collier, all rights reserved.